


Liberalism By Sunlight

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-10
Updated: 2005-07-10
Packaged: 2019-05-15 15:19:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14792973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: They've dealt with the coming attractions. The main feature has been postponed long enough.





	Liberalism By Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Liberalism by Sunlight**

**by: Delightfully Eccentric**

**Pairing(s):** Jed/Abbey, Jed/Leo, Abbey/CJ  
**Category(s):** AU/Slash  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Disclaimer:** The West Wing characters and histories aren't mine, and are used here for love, not money.  
**Summary:** They've dealt with the coming attractions. The main feature has been postponed long enough.  
**Author's Note:** Part of the '5 Things That Never Happened to Jed Bartlet' Series 

The plane is air-conditioned. Gently irritating music wafts, and the stewards' voices are quiet yet distinct. 

His feet hit the steps and the chorus starts up and the temperature hits and a couple of dozen shutters click and flash bulbs explode like miniature sunshines, dying within an instant under the real thing. 

"Jed!" 

His smile, the one that made his fortune, rises pale in the east. Light dances on his teeth. They were perfect, then he had work done, and now they're something else. 

"Jed!" 

"Over here!" 

His arm rises in slow motion, above his head. Recalling one of his early works, an iconic moment that won him fame and cost him credibility. Wave with five fingers spread wide, and it's his wedding band that pointedly catches the sun, mocking catcalls from behind the rope line. 

"Jed!" 

"Josiah!" 

"Mr. Bartlet, a few words, please!" 

His head nods, his mouth twists, as his eyes appear to scan the crowd. His other hand extends behind him. A moment's hesitation and Abbey finds him, allowing herself to be drawn forwards. 

She smiles for the white lights. She hasn't had work done, unless the hours spent arranging too much face-paint count. Still her grin is brighter; it's more vicious. 

"Jed!" 

She takes half a step ahead and turns towards him, letting the photographers on the other side catch her. The fashionistas should be able to see her outfit before they begin pulling it apart. 

He draws their clasped hands to his chest and trusts she can feel his heart. 

"Jed!" 

She works her fingers free and precedes him down the steps, making for the limo. She'd rather be in the background than be off-centre of attention. 

He hits the ground and squeezes a few hands, breaks a few hearts. He waggles a finger in the direction of the whoops when he bends to lift flowers strewn in his path. 

"What's your next project, Jed?" 

"You were robbed at the Globes." 

"Can you confirm you're planning your own production company?" 

"Would you work with Cameron again?" 

He spends too long waiting for a prompt before he remembers that he fired Cal. And he fired Jerry and Mack and Steve. 

"Next project? Let's see, I thought maybe I'd run for office. And take in a few night classes. I always wanted to be a pastry chef." 

People begin to mutter behind their hands. The initial smattering of laughter fades as he starts to be taken seriously. 

He sighs. The timing is always off; he should stick to the script. He should hire someone to write the script. 

"I'm in talks to play FDR for Spielberg." 

The questions start raining again; the little suns begin winking again. 

He strides towards the car. He's got a good stride, rapid and assured. He could play FDR. He could win that slippery Oscar. 

The largest bouquet is presented by the manager of the airport. 

"It's an honour to meet you, Mr. Bartlet. Welcome back to Los Angeles." 

* 

Eleven a.m. in a terrace café. The kind of place people kiss cheeks in the air. Oldest friends, morning coffee. 

The city is not so soulless when he fills in his own schedule, but he's missed more than one meeting with studio heads. 

Leo is berating him in that expressionlessly stern manner Jed swears is reserved exclusively for him. Cups of black coffee with a more expensive name, dark circles on which the light skips when Jed blows to cool it. 

"I'm saying, if you want the silverware, you're going to have to play the game." 

"What have I been doing for thirty years?" 

"Getting into the position you're in." 

He stares at the dark glitter in the coffee cup. Leo raps a spoon smartly against the rim of his. He looks up. Leo's eyes are impossible sparks amongst the faded layers and ancient history in his face. Jed doesn't know how he always knows the appropriate amount of patience to allot to his broodiness. 

"What happened to the thing with Spielberg?" 

"He's doing a fictionalised Plato biopic instead." He shrugs. "Apparently I wasn't supposed to talk about it, or something. I thought he was kind of pissy." 

Leo looks a lot like Jed's mother when he's lit from behind. How Freudian. He could play Freud. 

"I don't want to play any more. I want to do something that means something." 

Leo rolls the blue of his eyes before Jed can utter 'art'. 

"That's why I'm going to run a company for you. But it doesn't give you license to tell the studios to go fuck themselves." 

The two of them should be fucking each other, not stagnating on a balcony, staring at coffee and talking about selling popcorn. 

He never wants to talk about these things. He relies on Leo to force his hand. 

He checks his watch – he has to twist his wrist to keep the glare hitting the glass from obscuring the figures. 

He'd rather show Leo the new villa while Abbey's checking out hospitals; he'd rather not rub it in her face. 

She has more than her share of warm bodies, but she's never had a Leo of her own. Unless. Unless her husband counts. 

The man at the next table – dressed like an undertaker, Jed invents a history for him, a potential cameo role in his first production – stands and rolls his newspaper under his arm. There's a thumbnail of Jed's head above the headlines, advertising a feature in the entertainment supplement. 

Something niggles. 

The man catches him looking and his face changes, a shy expression. Jed nods. Leo follows his eyeline and pulls his chair a fraction closer. The man takes the hint and passes by. 

"Shit." 

"What?" 

Leo has a frown for every occasion. Jed loves eight out of ten of them. 

"I have a thing- I was supposed to talk to a guy." 

He checks his watch, again. "In ten minutes." 

"Where?" 

"I don't remember." 

That's Leo's worried frown, one that he doesn't love. He waves it off, frustrated. 

"I don't remember because I don't care. It's not... It's not my thing." 

"Okay," Leo says too quickly. "So that one's a write-off. You gotta do better." 

Jed keeps his eyes up, face defiant, permission for Leo to scold him. 

"I don't need to tell you it's not just about good movies." 

He does need to. Leo knows full well when to push, in which spot and how hard. It's been honed over decades, like Jed's folksy grin, on which folks spend millions of dollars. 

"You've got the talent. Let me take care of the tactics." 

He knows how to pick up a cue, and to bat one back. "I need a new publicist," he acknowledges. He stirs cold coffee. 

Immediately Leo leans forward. "I've been thinking about that." 

"No, really?" 

"There's someone I think you should meet. She's smart, she's politically sensitive, I like her work, and what's more she's available. She just left Triton Day." 

He raises a well-practised eyebrow. 

"You already hired her?" 

"I would never presume." Leo's demure frown. He likes that one. 

"Then she left... why?" 

Leo shifts. 

"Let's just say her attitude towards studio heads needs nearly as much work as yours." 

Jed screws up his nose. From time to time he overrides Leo's ideas. 

"I'm going to bring her to the house." Leo never gives in without war. "'Cause you know when Abbey finds out I'm in town – and you know that won't take long 'cause she's Abbey – she's going to invite me over for dinner. And you need someone. It can't hurt to meet her." 

Leo pushes his chair back and crosses his legs. His fingers drum on his knees. There's a card up his sleeve, because his nonchalance is focused not on Jed but at a spec on his shirt. 

"Abbey would like her." 

Jed lifts the cup to his lips. The only warmth left is direct from the sun. He puts it down. Checks his watch. 

"She's funny?" 

There are going to be late nights working on his production (his serious project, his Moby Dick). He won't want Abbey to think he's playing favourites. 

A young woman approaches the table. Her face burns pink and he can't quite place her accent as she stutters out her request from an autograph: Dear Mary, from one of his most popular characters. He signs her T-shirt on the back and listens for a few minutes as she gasps her appreciation. He was just wonderful in the long-awaited sequel to his first major hit. He looks great with his hair slicked back. He was robbed at the Globes. 

Leo watches him bask with a wry smile – there is rarely another kind from Leo – and his attention is the hot centre of the spotlight. 

He gently shoos the girl. A circle has formed. 

Exeunt stage left. 

He smiles and waves. Talking through a smile isn't much different from gritted teeth. 

"Abbey would like her?" 

Leo nods without expression. The bodyman shouldn't smile. 

People try to ask questions but he doesn't have Leo's patience. It always amuses Leo, except when it infuriates him. 

Smile and wave, nod at appropriate intervals. Make it to the valet with the car. 

They've dealt with the coming attractions. The main feature has been postponed long enough. 

* 

Abbey likes her. 

He can't help but smirk when Leo steps through the door and reveals the woman standing behind him, wearing a smile fit for her own hanging, quietly simmering with brains she doesn't use and unease in her skin. 

At a glance it's clear to him that Abbey will be teaching her some things to do with her skin and that body entire, other than drown it beneath the kind of fabric Abbey would use for a cleaning rag. 

She thinks he's laughing at her, which makes her at the same time indignant and more nervous, either of which may be the reason she bangs her elbow against the doorframe. Her surprised cry broadens his grin. Abbey will love her voice. 

He seizes her hand and draws her over the threshold. 

"I'm Jed Bartlet." 

She endeavours to smile and to say her name. 

"-CJ. I know." 

Someone's going to work for him, he likes them to start off with an edge of intimidation and wind up bedazzled. Someone's going to fuck his wife, he insists upon it. It's only fair. 

She begins to describe how his last movie could have grossed another five million. Since he pocketed fifteen upfront, he's more interested in watching her hands jerk as she speaks. 

Abbey comes forth to greet them and he can tell she heard the new voice (his new voice, if Leo has his way, and Abbey's new project). 

There's no sight more magnificent than his wife when she has prey in her sights. She swells until even the superstar she married is pushed out of the frame. 

He serves food, she serves drinks and rough wit, and the look with which she fixes him when she first hears CJ's laugh makes him want to clear the table with a sweep of his arm. 

She pulls him into the kitchen after appetisers and presses her tongue between his lips, her hands all over his ass, previewing what she will do to CJ and Leo will do to him. It carries memories of a thousand summer nights that didn't require CJ or Leo to be hot. 

"Are you going to hire her?" 

Her words muffled in his stubble (Cal's idea - but he fired Cal). One hand comes round to the front of his pants. 

"I don't know." 

His muffled in her hair. Smells of something artificially exotic. 

"She doesn't exactly look image-conscious." 

"Honey, trust me, I'll handle how she looks." 

She nips his ear. 

"She's smart. Leo says she's smart." 

She's not above playing the Leo card; she knows his guilt lingers like her jealousy. There's little that's beneath her. Apart from... 

He kisses her harder. She moans around his mouth before pushing him back. 

"I'm just asking, am I pushing everything tonight, or can I take it easy?" 

"Far be it from me to dictate how you take it, sugar buns." 

She kisses him until he can hardly breathe, and hardly wants to. 

Each member of the party demonstrates a hearty appetite. Abbey accepts the guests' compliments, in spite of the fact that the chef went home an hour ago. 

She monopolises the conversation. Monopolises CJ, at least. 

He keeps an ear on the women, interjecting when appropriate, and focuses on Leo. They talk softly, not in whispers, about future plans, largely revolving around making Jed a bigger man than he already is. 

CJ's ears prick and he sees her awkwardness as she attempts to include herself in the shop talk without slighting Abbey. He sees that her awkwardness is less than he'd have imagined. 

He doesn't need to look at Leo to feel the 'you see I'm right' curl of the lip. He doesn't need to look at Abbey to know that she and Leo are sharing a moment. 

He looks out the window at the not yet setting sun. The colours are going to begin to separate out across the sky soon, if city smoke doesn't swallow it all. 

The drinks Abbey served are variations of mineral water and tea. He and Abbey tell each other it's for Leo (too raw, too soon) but, really, it's proof between them that this lifestyle is their choice and not their vice. 

The shape of the table gradually changes over the course of the evening, two pairs drawing together. His knees touch Leo's and their heads lean in, smatterings of conversation from time to time breaking an easy silence. Going on thirty years they've shared evenings like this. 

They witness the contrast between themselves and the new duo, evolving before their eyes. CJ's confidence rises; Abbey tones down her excesses. CJ like a sunflower bends in the direction of Abbey's attentions. After she starts when Abbey drops a hand on her thigh and looks around wide-eyed to see only a wink from him, he thinks she understands the score. At some point over splitting the last after dinner mint, she is the one flirting. 

He watches Leo's hands move over one another, one of his few signals of impatience. Jed lays his thumb over Leo's wedding ring. His chair scrapes on the floorboards as he pushes it back. 

"Before you go," CJ says, and she has been paying attention, "Before you make any decisions. I think you should know I could win you that Oscar. I could help you win the Oscar." 

He hesitates somewhere the chair and his feet, digests his smile with his meal. 

He looks at the woman he loves, gesticulates in the direction of the man. 

"What do you think of her?" 

Abbey's never looked more the pussycat, her expression matched in her words. 

"I think she's good enough to eat." 

He turns back to the other woman, who's returned to twitching like there's something wrong with her (nothing Abbey can't fix). He doesn't blame her for wondering if this is beyond her depth, faced with the three of them at their brightest. 

But Leo thinks she'll be good. 

"You've got a job." 

He leans across the table and kisses Abbey till it makes him hungry, rakes a hand through her hair. 

"Quite a job, on your hands." 

Leo rises to his feet behind him – he can tell by the rustle of Leo's too-formal clothes against his back. Leo rarely makes as much as the sound of a breath. 

"And now, my dear, if you don't mind..." 

"Oh, you boys run along." 

Abbey sinks back away from his lips, the Cheshire cat who got the cream and the canary in one evening. She swings one leg over the other, brushing CJ's knee on the way. 

"I think we'll be just fine." 

* 

It's the early hours of the morning by the time his breathing has settled. Leo is dozing at his back. He will snap into life the moment the weight of his arm on Jed's side shifts and so all is still in the first true darkness Jed has seen since he got here. 

He's physically tired – he couldn't help but be – but his mind is turning over recent and upcoming events. The studios. The production company. The Oscar promised by CJ (promised so often before by the pundits). His unwillingness to confess he craves it. 

Leo's not quite so silent in the night. When Jed listens for it, he can hear him breathe. He worries, terribly, about Leo, in a way he's never had to about Abbey because she's always seemed so indestructible. 

Leo has always been so precarious, through war and its effects, mental scars and their effects, perhaps most lethally, the effects of genetics. His situation is so precarious still. 

He resists the urge to toss and turn, balling the covers in his sweaty fists instead. 

Why is Leo here? If he has so much to invest, why is it all in Jed's glory? It's good for his ego – and let's face it, he doesn't need help there – but bad for his blood pressure, because there's one reason, of course, Leo's here. There's a long way to fall from the pedestal he's been raised upon. 

"Shit." 

Leo coils, awake in a breath. "Okay?" 

"Yeah. Fine. Sleep." 

He groans at the creaking springs. Leo checking the time. 

"You can stay." 

"I should go." 

"It's okay. Abbey's fine with it. I'll go join her in a minute. Stay here, really. You should sleep." 

"I'm going to go." 

Already Leo's out of bed, already half his clothes are on. Jed drags himself up over the protests of his limbs – his body is wearier than he realised. He touches his forehead to Leo's in the lifting dark. Already a sliver of sun is beginning to rise. 

Rough brushing of Leo's fingers over his skin. 

"My matinée idol." 

Leo slips out as subtly as his life became entwined in Jed's. 

Jed sleepily staggers the steps between the guest room and the master bedroom, and doesn't hear the noises until his hand is on the handle of the door. 

Either it took Abbey longer than expected to get her into bed, or they've been at it all night. 

He finds his ear pressed flush against the door without knowing how it got there. 

CJ's voice is even more impressive when she comes than when she laughs. He listens, swallowing his breaths, to Abbey's familiar moans and CJ's revelatory cries. He fancies he can hear the pictures rattle on the walls. 

The sound graduates, and ultimately subsides. 

His hand has a will of its own as it slowly turns on the handle. 

The door is barely open. It isn't open, he tells himself. He can see CJ's bare chest rise and fall through it anyway. Her head is thrown back, hanging over the edge of the bed and her breathing is erratic. She is flushed all over, at least as far as he can see. Her hands are buried under the covers, presumably in contact with some part of his wife's body. 

He wets his lips with his tongue. 

"Josiah Bartlet, whatever do you think you're doing out there?" 

Abbey's head emerges from beneath the sheets at the bottom of the bed, tousled and magnificent. She looks smug; she sounds smug, and sexed. 

He steps into the room to explain himself. 

CJ gives a yelp and whips her arms up, then appears to feel this looks foolish after what he may have seen already, possibly influenced by Abbey's cackle. 

He makes a show of turning away and looking at the carpet. 

"Oh, good grief." 

Abbey wriggles up the bed (he pretends not to be looking out the corner of his eye, but who would believe he could help himself?) and drapes her body across tonight's lover's, inch by inch exposing her entirety, and he wonders how it is that he's never before seen her fresh from sex with someone else. 

"Okay, honey?" 

He hears whispers and then, sternly, "You can turn around, Jed." 

"Sorry. CJ, I thought you'd-" 

"You've been listening at the door for a good five minutes," Abbey, putting on a show of being pissed. "You didn't think I was doing this all by myself." 

It isn't the time to pass comment. 

* 

After many stumbled-over apologies and shallow kisses goodbye, plus an incident involving his new publicist tripping over her shoe and sprawling naked on the floor, he is at last in bed with his wife and almost asleep. 

She takes his hand and runs it across her stomach. He squeezes his arm tighter about her chest, breathes on her hair under his chin. Stripes of light filter through the slats in the blinds and land across their bodies. 

"Jed." 

"Mm." 

He's ready for dreaming. 

"I think I can learn to live in California." 


End file.
